


Stolen Kiss

by Idrelle_Miocovani



Series: Not By Fate's Design [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Drama, Drama between the Houses, Dwarven Politics, F/M, Forbidden Love, Kirkwall (Dragon Age), Romance, Sexual Content, Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 17:41:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12090075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idrelle_Miocovani/pseuds/Idrelle_Miocovani
Summary: 9:16 Dragon.There is a tourney in Kirkwall and, in the commotion, a young Varric and Bianca take the moment to slip off together.





	Stolen Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> During this story, Varric and Bianca are both 16 years old.

Kirkwall was always (somehow) a mess, but on the day of the Viscount’s Tourney, it was an even greater mess than it should have been. They came from all around. Knights and nobles, merchants and farmers, elves and dwarves and humans. Regardless of their origins, they flocked to the city gates all the same. Even the mages had been allowed out of the Circle, under Templar supervision, and a Dalish elf or two had snuck through the gates—youths from the nearby clan, creeping down from the mountains to fulfil their curiosity of the world beyond their borders, no doubt. 

The Viscount’s Tourney was the event of the decade and it was probably going to ruin the city. Kirkwall was going to _love_ it. 

The labyrinthine streets were packed with people, pushing, shoving, fighting through the crowds to get the find the best seats, the best food and the best entertainment. Wine and ale flowed, taverns bursting with patrons, and the stench of spilt drink and vomit soon saturated the air from Hightown to Lowtown. Fistfights broke out, drunken challenges were issued, shops were broken into, merchandise was stolen. At least two premeditated murders were accomplished in broad daylight with hundreds of witnesses, yet no one could identify the murderers. With the ratio of citizens and visitors to guards widely skewed, the Coterie and the Carta were no doubt having a field day. 

The Merchants’ Guild, on the other hand, was using the influx of visitors to scam as much coin out of their pockets as possible. With their eyes firmly on the purses of visiting Antivan and Orlesian merchants, they wouldn’t be watching the youngest scion of House Tethras. Which meant that Varric was free to do as he pleased, regardless of what warnings Bartrand had given him. 

 _Stay away from the tourney grounds,_ he had said, eyebrows bristling as he continued to peruse the document in his hand. _House Davri donated a large amount of coin to sponsor the Viscount’s latest frivolity. They intend to win the favours they sorely lack. Their representatives will be present and they won’t hesitate to kill you if they see you._

“‘…they won’t hesitate to kill you if they see you’? He really said that?” 

“Yeah.” 

“What nugshit. Your bother sounds like a sodding ass.” 

“I won’t disagree there.” 

Varric leaned back on one elbow and raised his free hand to shield his face. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky today and the bright sun was hurting his eyes. They were on the roof of  a ramshackle building on the tourney grounds, one of many that had been quickly erected for the festival. From here, they had an excellent view of the stands and the arena (which was currently hosting the jousting competition), as well as the path leading back to the city. The merchants had been too busy to notice them when they had scaled the scaffolding, and the crowd passing by below were too drunk to look up. Even if they were noticed, there was too much happening for anyone to care much about two young dwarves sitting on a roof away from the action.   

Varric glanced over at Bianca, who was sitting on the roof’s edge, legs dangling over the side, swinging back and forth as her fingers picked at her long braid. She was dressed plainly today—worn leggings and a frayed, grease-spotted tunic. There was small burnt hole near its hem. Varric wasn’t entirely sure, but he had a feeling this was what she wore when she was at the forge. It suited her. She was much more relaxed with her movement unhampered by the heavy embroidered dresses her mother insisted she wear. 

Knowing Bianca, she had probably showed up to the tourney in one of those fancy dresses with her tunic and leggings worn underneath, then promptly ditched the gown when she took off on her own. 

“You know, your brother reminds me of my mother,” Bianca said, now undoing her braid and tossing her hair free around her shoulders. “Don’t do this thing I don’t want you to do _or you will die!”_ She made a face, wrinkling her nose and pressing her lips together. The dusting of freckles on her face stood out in the sunlight. “The more dramatic the warning, the less I trust it.” 

“I dunno,” Varric said. “Your mother really did not like me dropping in on your grand Orlesian masque.” 

“It was a party,” Bianca corrected.   

“It was a masque.” 

“It was a _party._ House Davri would _never_ throw a foreign ball, it would be an insult to the Ancestors.” 

“There were masks. There were Orlesians. By definition, it was an Orlesian masque.” 

“Only sticklers go by the definitions,” Bianca shot back at him, chin raised in a challenge. A smile was trying to force its way onto her lips. “Are you a stickler?” 

Varric spread his hands. “Would I be up here if I were?” 

Bianca grinned and fondly punched his shoulder. 

“Ow,” Varric said, even though it didn’t hurt. 

“You’re such a baby.” 

“Well, I am the youngest child. They say we are the slowest to mature.” 

“Oh, really?” Bianca said, eyes dancing gleefully. “Says who? Because I’m the youngest child, too, and _I’ve_ matured. Fully.” 

“Yes,” Varric said, eyes flickering over her body. Though it was stained and spotted, the tunic was very flattering on her. “I would say that you have.” 

“You’re staring at my chest, aren’t you,” Bianca said. 

“Yep.” Varric grinned. “You walked right into that one.” 

Bianca pulled her legs back up from the ledge and shifted around so she sat cross-legged, facing Varric. “I don’t have a problem with that,” she said. “You were saying?” 

“Hm?” 

“Before you got distracted—you were saying something about my mother.” 

“Oh, right!” Varric sat up straight and spun around to face her. Off in the distance, he could just make out the roar of the crowd and the sound of some knight’s lance breaking. “Your mother has some very particular feelings about me. I wouldn’t put it passed her to try to kill me.” 

“You’re giving her way too much credit,” Bianca said. “She’s fundamentally lazy. Killing you would be a nightmare for paperwork. At most she would have you roughed up a bit, maybe a broken bone or two—” 

“Thanks—” 

“But I think she’d draw a line at assassination,” Bianca finished. 

Another crack from the distant arena. Varric and Bianca spun, looking at the forms in the distance. A knight was down, tumbled on the ground, his horse trotting in circles around him. His opponent raised his lance in triumph as the crowd cheered on his victory. 

“You know, I don’t really understand the purpose of jousting,” Bianca said. “You take two knights and you crash them together. Looks flashy, but there’s no underlying thought.” 

“You just explained the reason,” Varric said. “It looks flashy. Flashy things are impressive.”

“Practical things are impressive,” Bianca countered, still gazing at the arena, lips pursed. “Jousting’s not practical. They’re knights! Why waste their time showing off in a fancy sport when they could be training, discovering new military techniques?” 

“Not everything has to be practical,” Varric said. “The world would be extremely boring if it were.” 

“But everything would work better.” 

“The world’s not one of your machines,” Varric said. “It’s not meant to run smoothly.” He took her hand, pulling her close, his free hand on her waist. “It’s not practical that we came to the tourney. It’s not practical that we’re up on this roof.” 

“Hm,” Bianca said, nestling comfortably against him, one arm wrapped around his shoulders. “That’s a good point. This piece of shit has so many structural problems, I’m surprised it hasn’t collapsed—” 

“Let’s not think about that,” Varric said hastily. He didn’t have a fear of heights, but he would like to trust the buildings he walked on to not cause his pre-mature death. 

“Okay,” Bianca said, edging closer to him. She shook her head, her long hair fanning out behind her as she wrapped her arms around his neck and slipped into his lap, comfortably straddling him. “I _suppose_ I can leave the design flaws alone,” she said, grinning as she overemphasized her words, sarcasm dripping in her tone. “Just for you, mind. I would have you know that’s a very hard thing for me to do. I am a smith.” 

“A very good smith.” 

“Yes,” she said brightly. “That’s what they tell me.” 

She leaned forwards, kissing him soundly, her mouth warm and her lips supple. She slipped her tongue into his mouth, deepening the kiss and she pulled herself closer to him, hands locked behind his neck, breasts pressing against his chest, her hips shifting to and fro, grinding tantalizing against him. He ran his hands down her back, a rush of exhilaration running through him. He could feel the breeze on his face, the warmth of the bright sun entwined, the excitement and urgency in the energy between them. No one would notice two dwarves on a roof, no one would care. 

No one would recognize them. 

That’s what he told himself, again and again as Bianca kissed him, and he kissed her back,  their desperation and their yearning for something more growing with each passing moment. They were just two people, two of many, intoxicated by desire, participating in something so many others did. And without the influence of alcohol, even. There was a tourney. A good two thirds of the city was drunk, doing all kinds of things to each other in back alleys and storage closets. 

No one would care.   

Varric slipped a hand under Bianca’s tunic, the warmth of her skin raw as he trailed it up her stomach. She moaned against his lips, her breath hot in his mouth, her hips grinding rhythmically as his fingers caressing the edge of her breast— 

“BIANCA!” 

_“Oh, nugshit!”_

Bianca pushed his hand away and pulled away. She stood up, straightening her tunic and looked down at the person who had yelled up at her. 

“Don’t turn around, Varric,” she whispered, barely moving her lips. “Don’t show your face.” 

“Why?” he breathed. 

“BIANCA! _Come down from there this minute!”_  

“That’s my mother,” she said. “And she has guards.” She glanced at Varric, worry in her eyes. “Looks like you were right. She _does_ want to kill you.” 

Bianca darted for the edge of the roof and leapt down the scaffolding. As soon as her feet hit the ground, she was swept away by her mother and her guard. Varric didn’t stay to watch. He was too busy scaling the other side of the building and disappearing into the crowd of tourney spectators. 

The last thing he wanted was for Celia Davri to recognize the boy she found her daughter kissing was the same mongrel who had disrupted her fancy ball a month ago. 

The same mongrel who belonged to her House’s deadliest rivals. 

“Well, shit,” Varric said.    


End file.
